Winter
Cover by: crotchner
AN: I am so incredibly happy to say that the fantastic artist crotchner has chosen to illustrate this story into a seven part digital "storybook", if you will. There's a link to the first installment on my profile. She is absolutely wonderful, and I highly encourage all of you to take a look at it.
Come on Balthazar I refuse to let you die
Come on fallen star I refuse to let you die
'Cause that's wrong and I've been waiting far too long
It's wrong I've been waiting far too long
For you to be... be... be... be...
Be mine.
Piers watches the snow sneak through the cracks in the old walls by the dim light of a single bulb that dangles precariously above their heads. They sleep with the light on, always. You wouldn't want someone—or something—sneaking up on you and getting a jump while you're blinded. The house belongs to a friend of the BSAA; a mother who lost her son to the ravages of bioterror. She's got little to spare, but she always finds something to give. Their blankets are thin, and they shiver through the night, but any roof over their head is better than none.
They've been waiting there for several days now, preparing to rendezvous with the team that's coming in through Slovakia. They're taking their sweet time. Piers hopes they'll make it to Edonia without any casualties. Piers assumes that Chris hopes the same, but Chris is so impenetrable and stoic, Piers doesn't speculate too far. Chris speaks little, eats little, enjoys nothing, it would seem. He reminds Piers of winter.
Not a blizzard, but the cold days of frozen earth and waters.
He is grizzled and hardened; his back and chest show a patchwork of scars. Piers tries his best to not watch him when he is undressing, though the temptation remains: to study him, memorize him, take all of him in. Chris Redfield, unsung hero, in his most vulnerable and human moment.
It is difficult, resistance.
Piers thinks that he is beautiful, in the way a river is when it has iced over, with the patterns of the current remaining, impressed throughout the winter.
Harsh. Brilliant. Resilient.
Chris Redfield.
"I must disappoint you."
The words are sudden and choppy, and they startle Piers, who has been laying with his back to Chris. He tries to not look at him. He doesn't want to make it a habit. Those sort of things, people catch on to them.
"What?" Piers replies, turning to face Chris.
Chris looks dreamlike, with his eyes closed and his expression slack.
"I said, I must disappoint you."
Piers is taken aback. He's not sure where this confession is coming from.
"You don't... you don't disappoint me, Captain."
His words are staccato bursts, stuttered out amid shivers and confusion.
"It's just Chris, kid. Just Chris."
Piers has been trying to refer to him as "Captain" to keep himself at a distance. He's already too attached, in ways he knows he shouldn't be. He clears his throat.
"You don't disappoint me. Chris."
The name isn't sweet in his mouth, but rich. He savors it. Chris.
"How long did you spend looking for me?"
Chris keeps his eyes closed. Piers notices the way his chest rises and falls through the blankets when he breathes; how his nose flares when he exhales, and knows that this is why he doesn't face him when they sleep.
"A few months. We looked all through Eastern Europe... some people said they thought you took off, but I thought you would stay... that you would want to stay close to your men. Where they fell."
"You wasted your time. You shouldn't have come for me."
"I disagree Capt—Chris. You are an... invaluable asset to the BSAA."
Invaluable asset? Where the hell does he get this stuff from?
Chris snorts, humorless.
"All I can do is slow you down. It's embarrassing."
Chris stirs in the blankets. He smells like menthol cigarettes and aftershave.
Piers decides that is his new favorite scent.
"You're a hero. It's an honor to have you with us, slow or not. No one knows bioterrorism like you do."
"Yup, I'm a hero. That's what they tell me."
Chris falls silent. Piers cringes, hopes that he didn't offend him somehow. The first night they met, Piers was harsh with him. He yelled and carried on and rubbed salt in his wounds.
That was before he saw the pain. Before he saw the frozen river, and the knots in his back, and smelled the cigarettes and aftershave.
Chris speaks again.
"You know about Jill Valentine, right?"
Chris's longtime partner. Of course Piers knows about Jill Valentine. It's not every day that people come back from the dead.
"Yeah..." Piers begins, not quite sure what Chris wants to hear. It's okay though, because Chris cuts him off.
"Jill Valentine... she was a hero. Is a hero."
His voice breaks, something painful, like a crack in the ice. His eyes are still closed, squeezed shut now.
"We were going to get married, after she came home... she was strong. She was always so strong. She was too strong for me... I couldn't face her after I lost my men. How could I? How could I fucking explain that to her, that I wasn't enough of a man to take responsibility for my actions. I couldn't let her love someone like me... someone weak."
Piers hears another crack in the ice, the gush of the river beneath.
"Do you know what it's like? To love someone and let them down?"
Piers feels like he's being strangled, like there's no air in his lungs to carry out his answer.
"Yeah. I do."
He answers anyway.
"What happened to her?" Chris asks, his voice coming from somewhere far away.
"Him," Piers corrects. "It was a him."
Silence.
"He was tired of waiting for me to come home... tired of the missions, and the secrecy, and the unhappiness."
"Did he leave?" Chris asks.
"No. I left him... he wouldn't have left. He would have just suffered."
Chris nods, in silent agreement. Piers feels validated.
Someone else understands.
The wind whips against the flimsy house, as if it's threatening to blow it down. Little snowflakes dust their faces, and Piers watches them cluster on Chris's stubble.
His face is worn with everything he has seen; all the battles and losses are carved out right there, for everyone to see. Not everyone would notice though. Piers notices, he studies, he memorizes the way Chris carries his pain.
"You're staring at me," Chris mumbles, his eyes flickering open. Piers feels like his heart is going to fall out of his chest.
"Sorry, Capt—Chris."
"It's cold as hell in here... you wouldn't mind getting closer, would you?"
Piers shakes his head, slow and even.
"I wouldn't mind."
It's an understatement.
They nudge closer to each other, slow and awkward at first, until their bodies meet. Chris rearranges the blankets to cover them both, while Piers keeps his eyes focused on the swinging light bulb above them.
Chris may be winter, but he's warm. Warm like a hearth full of crackling wood and smoke, wrapping around and sinking his presence into Piers' skin.
They lay next to each other, and Piers feels as though he's gained a silent acceptance, that Chris understand his feelings for him and doesn't try to change them.
Maybe someday he could reciprocate them.
No matter what he says, Piers knows that Chris is a hero, no matter what sort of pain he carries. Chris is strong, even when he find himself weak. Chris is winter and warmth, contradictions that seem to fit together so well.
He is Chris Redfield, and Piers can't think of a better way to describe him.
"You don't disappoint me, Chris."
Author's Note: Pier's personality is speculative, seeing as RE6 isn't quite here yet, but I really wanted to write something about these two. Hopefully he won't seem too OOC come October.
Lyrics are from Centrefolds by Placebo.